Otherworld Protector

by Jane Godman

  It was those eyes that drew her in and captured her, she decided. Bluer than a summer evening, the irises were edged with gold as if encircled by fire. The effect was devastating. Once you looked into Moncoya’s eyes, you couldn’t look away. Not even if your life depended on it. She shook the foolish, intrusive thought away.

  It didn’t seem to concern Moncoya in the slightest that Diego, after an initial blink of shock at his employer’s entrance, had faded away, leaving them alone. Or that, without the benefit of an introduction, a girl he had never met was gazing at him in spellbound silence across a distance of several feet. A slight smile touched his lips and he moved forward, holding out both hands.

  “Stella Fallon. You are everything I hoped you would be.” It seemed a strange comment since, in those few seconds, she had no way of demonstrating the abilities for which he had hired her. Such was the force of his personality that she took the outstretched hands. The oddest feeling, like a slight electric shock, shimmered from her fingertips then tingled throughout her whole body at his touch.

  Get a grip, Stella. He probably has this effect on women all the time. Stella collected herself with some difficulty. “Senor Moncoya, I want to thank you...”

  He had gone. Releasing her hands, he strode away to the glass wall at the rear of the room. Stella hesitated. Away from the power of those eyes, doubt washed over her. Was that it? Was she dismissed? Or was she meant to follow? When Moncoya glanced, with a touch of impatience, over his shoulder, she got her answer and hurried to join him. For a few minutes they stood side by side, their reflections staring back at them from the window’s mirrorlike gloss.

  Stella tried to see herself through Moncoya’s eyes. Short. Well, he wasn’t tall so that was good, wasn’t it? Stop it, Stella. Nothing is going to happen here. Slim. A bit too slim. Okay, I’m on the skinny side. Short, spiky hair. Hair that was a lot shorter than his. Wide eyes and pixie features—like a gremlin, a former boyfriend had once said...during a fight. Vintage dress and combat boots. It was her favorite look. 1950s movie icon meets steampunk rebel. Not the kind of woman for a man like Mon—Moncoya pressed a button and one of the glass panels slid back. With old-fashioned courtesy, he bowed slightly, indicating that Stella should precede him. She stepped out onto a wide terrace and inhaled the midnight scent of orange blossom. The entire city of Barcelona, lit up like a child’s fairyland, was spread out below them.

  “Welcome to your new home.”

  Stella turned to Moncoya with shining eyes, wanting to voice the thanks she had attempted earlier. As she did, her peripheral vision kicked in again, the movement urgent enough to make her pause. The feeling of contentment she got from knowing her protector was there was as powerful as ever, but this time there was something more. Something equally strong. She had never before experienced this particular sensation from her shadowy guardian. She took a second to examine the new perception. It felt a lot like a warning.

  Chapter 2

  As a child Stella would have long, imaginary conversations with her protector while playing with her toys. In these, his answering voice was quiet and masculine. He was the one person who always had time for her. He said what she wanted to hear. With him she felt safe and loved. If she was upset or fearful, she only had to think of him and he would come to her. It didn’t matter that he didn’t exist beyond the outer reaches of her vision, or that when she blinked he was gone. He was as real to her as any of her foster carers or teachers.

  Stella had been three when her parents were killed in a car crash. When she pictured that day it was as a sharp turn in the road, a change in the path of her life. Behind her was a meandering, sweet-smelling country lane, lined with flowers. Ahead there was a gray concrete highway with nothing on either side to alleviate the monotonous view.

  Every attempt had been made to find adoptive parents for her. “She has no other family and—I don’t know what it is, maybe it’s because she’s such a fey child or always lurching into mischief—but she doesn’t seem to take, if you know what I mean. And she should have grown out of the imaginary-friend phase long ago.”

  Stella had overheard that fractious comment one day as she sat outside the matron’s office in the children’s home waiting to take her punishment for her latest transgression. It had set the tone for a childhood spent alternating between kindly foster homes and a series of trying-too-hard-to-be-homely institutions. It didn’t matter. She always had him.

  No one else listened when Stella talked about the monster that lived under her bed. It didn’t matter where she slept, the monster would be there awaiting her arrival. Although its eyes were dark, sometimes they burned ember bright. In the dark reaches of the night, it whispered Stella’s name in a low, scratchy voice. The monster wanted Stella. Not just any little girl. Her. She would squeeze her eyes shut and her lips would form a silent plea for the monster to leave her alone. Her protector always came in answer to those appeals.

  If she didn’t look directly at him, she could see the protector’s tall shadow on the edge of her vision. Somehow it was easier in the dark. Once, in the children’s home, the curtains had not been fully closed and a sliver of moonlight from the streetlight outside had sneaked through. Briefly, it had illuminated his face, allowing her eager gaze to drink in his square, determined jaw, fine mouth and silver-gray eyes. She had been startled into turning her head to stare directly at him, and he had instantly disappeared. From then on, he had taken care not to allow her any further close-up glimpses.

  He spoke to the monster in a guttural language Stella didn’t recognize. Not aloud, of course. Instead the whispered words seeped into her subconscious. The monster would whine and attempt to cling to the floorboards in response. As her heart pounded out a rhythm of relief, Stella would sense the monster’s defeat and hear its slithering departure. Over the years, Stella came to understand how it worked. Even to accept it. The monster would always be there. It would always want her. But she would be safe...so long as her protector was near.

  Now, for the first time in her life, the monster was gone. She had been so tired the first night after her arrival that she’d tumbled into bed in the strange room on the casa’s upper floor and not given it a thought. After five nights in Moncoya’s Barcelona mansion, she felt she could officially say her bedroom was a monster-free zone. And all it had taken to bring about this purge was a two-and-a-half-hour international flight. Maybe monsters didn’t have passports.

  Stella sometimes wondered if her monochrome childhood was responsible for her neon-color imagination. Whatever the cause, her mind was a constant whirl of ideas. When she was young, color, shape, music and poetry all vied for her attention. As she grew up and became more discerning, she had become more focused. Honing her natural artistic skills in college, she had pursued her ultimate dream by completing a master’s degree in computer games design. She had left school twelve months ago to seek a job in London. In the most competitive field imaginable, slap in the middle of a recession.

  The question was always the same. “What have you done?”

  The answer never varied. “Nothing yet.”

  Her awesome, hard-won qualifications counted for nothing. It was a vicious circle. Give me a job so I can prove myself. Prove yourself and we might give you a job. She took a routine office job to pay the bills on her tiny studio and spent her evenings dreaming up new ideas for games. She met up with a few university friends for drinks one weekend, and they had discussed their various ideas. The subject of crowd funding came up. It was how “Supernova Deliverance,” an online survival game with a supernatural theme, had been born. In its turn, it had led Stella to this job.

  The email from Moncoya’s personal assistant had come on a cold, miserable day. One on which her job had seemed more boring than ever. It was fate, she decided, her heart skipping several beats as she read and reread it. Senor Moncoya had followed the progress of the crowd funding
project with interest. He was particularly impressed with the way she had laid out the conceptual framework and her graphics development skills. There was a temporary internship at Moncoya Enterprises in Barcelona. Would she be interested?

  “I have to reply today!” Realizing she had spoken aloud, she had retreated back behind her computer screen, her mind whirling with possibilities.

  There was a brief job description. Ability to visualize compelling social games. Knowledge and insight of game balance. Strong design and drafting skills. Key phrases danced around her mind as she typed her resignation letter. Fluency in Spanish an advantage. Must sign a confidentiality contract. Good thing she’d chosen to take Spanish at school.

  “Muchas gracias, Senor Moncoya. Te amo mucho.”

  Since she had joined his company, Moncoya had given her no reason to withdraw that declaration of undying love. Okay, so he had some very odd friends and they liked to party hard. But if Moncoya wanted to hang out with a group of people who looked like stylish punk rockers that was his business. She caught occasional glimpses of his friends and was struck by two things that they had in common. They were all stunningly beautiful, and she wondered if that was a deliberate choice of Moncoya’s. Being so striking himself, did he choose to surround himself with others who were similarly good-looking?

  The other thing they shared was a style idiosyncrasy. Each of them wore the same contact lenses. They all had the same curious ring of fire around their iris as Moncoya. Was it a statement? A tribute to Moncoya? Or was Moncoya’s own yellow burst of fire also the result of contact lenses? Out of interest, Stella had searched the internet for it. She had found something called “central heterochromia” that apparently would have got you an automatic burning as a witch in the Middle Ages, but even that didn’t come close to the blaze of color exhibited by Moncoya and his party people. She had shrugged it off. As a fashion statement it was extreme, but Moncoya was extreme. It was part of his charm.

  There had been a horrible misunderstanding a few nights ago when some of Moncoya’s friends had taken a shine to Stella and seemed to feel she was an important guest rather than realizing she was just a very junior employee. They had wanted her to join the party, and she’d been forced to make a hurried exit. Somehow she didn’t think the amused tolerance Moncoya had so far demonstrated toward her would survive any attempts to gate-crash into his social sphere.

  Stella was aware of the occasional exchange of looks between the other game design employees. She had overheard one or two barbed comments. She suspected she was meant to hear them.

  “Why is el jefe still around? Never known him to hang around la casa for more than a day. Two at most.”

  “Could it have anything to do with his new pet? The little crowd funder protégé? He calls her his star.”

  “She’s a bit young for Moncoya, surely? Although, come to think of it, she does have that elven look he likes so much.”

  Diego had chimed into the conversation then. “Ease up on her, guys. She knows her stuff, that’s for sure. And her artwork is spectacular.”

  A job she loved. A boss she liked. And no monsters. This new turn in the road offered her a whole new direction. The drab highway was forever behind her. Ahead lay a winding, challenging mountain pass. She was ready to forge upward along this new scenic route.

  * * *

  “He doesn’t need to send his foot soldiers to lurk under your bed anymore, Stella. Not when he’s sitting right next to you.” And hoping that very soon he’ll be joining you in that bed.

  Cal could feel the frustration pouring off him like sweat off a cage fighter. He wanted to storm over there, drag her away from Moncoya and all the way back to the only place he knew for sure he could keep her safe. When there were other people around it was so difficult to watch out for her. University had been problematic and so boring. Cal had yawned through the lectures and seminars that fascinated Stella. All those kids, all rushing somewhere. London especially had been the worst place to guard her.

  Because it wasn’t just Moncoya he had to look out for. In a way Moncoya was the least of his problems. He snorted with laughter at that thought and mentally rephrased it. Moncoya was a dangerous bastard, but at least he would be predictably terrifying. It was the others, the unknowns, who posed the greater problem. Because word of the prophecy had trickled out. It had been inevitable. So many centuries had passed since the prediction was first spoken, and then written. So many great scholars had frowned and debated over its meaning. One of Cal’s worst fears throughout that time had been how the vague wording might be interpreted. Evil can twist any meaning to suit its purpose. And fragile Stella would be on the receiving end of those twists.

  Confrontation with Moncoya was inevitable. But, as the apocalyptic time drew closer, who else was hunting Cal’s precious charge? Was the man on the bus really just a sad loner who got a hard-on from rubbing himself up against young women? Turned out he was. Could the woman who had run toward Stella with a closed umbrella extended in front of her like a weapon during rush hour really have been late for an appointment? Cal couldn’t take that chance. A strategically extended foot and the woman had gone sprawling into the gutter while Stella continued on her way oblivious to any danger, real or imagined. As it should be. All in a day’s work. No thanks necessary.

  He didn’t want thanks. Or even acknowledgment. What he had never envisioned when he took this assignment and laid his plans for this day was that he would be forced to watch as his charge gazed worshipfully into the fiery eyes of the very being from whom she should be shrinking. On reflection, he supposed it was only to be expected. Moncoya’s touch, like that of all his kind, was known to be heady and intense. Moncoya, the most powerful of them all, could, it was said, induce euphoria to the point of spiritual, even physical, ecstasy with the lightest touch of his fingertips. Cal curled his lip at that. He’d believe that particular piece of Moncoya propaganda if he felt it for himself. Not that the little manikin would ever have the nerve to touch him, let alone come close to him. Not after the last time. Nevertheless, the new, dreamy look on Stella’s face seemed to confirm the rumor that Moncoya’s touch, once felt, had such a profound effect on the psyche that it evoked a desperate yearning to experience it again.

  “More wine?” Cal looked up as the cause of his bad mood held the bottle of Rioja over Stella’s glass.

  “No.” She shook her head, placing her hand over her glass a fraction of a second too late so that the ruby liquid ran over her fingers. She laughed, lifting her fingers to her lips to lick the droplets away. “I want to get back to that platform tonight. There are still some issues with fine-tuning the graphics.”

  They were seated on the terrace at the back of the house enjoying its spectacular views over the city. The evening sky was a tapestry of coral and lavender threaded through with streaks of gold, and the air was heavy with the scent of summer flowers. Stella wore a sundress that looked as if it was made from six stitched-together handkerchiefs. From his position leaning against an olive tree to one side of the terrace, Cal studied her face thoughtfully. For the first time ever, she was wearing lip gloss. His heart sank further and he found himself torn between conflicting emotions. Moncoya’s presence made him want to behave like the overprotective father in a sitcom and tell her to get inside and cover up. Another part, possibly the stronger part, insisted in forcing his eyes to linger on the slender expanse of her thighs. It was an oddly possessive emotion, new and strangely exhilarating.

  The sky darkened swiftly to night and bats flew in relay from the eaves of the casa to the street lamps and back, greedily grabbing any insects in their path. Moncoya leaned closer to Stella, and Cal clenched a fist against his thigh, willing the tousle-haired mongrel to give him an excuse to intervene, at the same time knowing he was powerless to do anything. Because this was as it had been ordained and he, of all people, could not deflect the course of the prophecy.


  Just as Moncoya’s hand moved to within an inch of the pale flesh of Stella’s upper arm, a monumental crash reverberated around the garden. The ground trembled as though in the grip of a brief but violent earthquake, and a cloud of red dust flew up several feet from the terrace.

  “Go inside.” Cal watched approvingly as Moncoya thrust Stella toward the open door. This was a first. Who’d have thought he’d ever find himself in agreement with Moncoya? He was aware that, although she followed the instruction, Stella hovered half in and half out of the casa, gazing at the point of impact in fascination.

  Moncoya lowered his head and stretched out his arms, and the grotesque beast that had just fallen to earth drew itself up to its full height as it faced him. Moncoya appeared tiny in comparison. Grudgingly, Cal admired his courage. Moncoya spoke softly in a lilting language. The whole night stilled. The dust cloud settled. The creature bared its teeth in a snarl. Moncoya spoke again and it unfurled wings that spanned at least eight feet. Nevertheless, it appeared pinned to the spot.

  Cal, growing tired of Moncoya’s dawdling methods, stepped forward and smashed his fist directly into the gargoyle’s hideous face. The creature sank into a crouch, its glowing eyes searching the darkness for the invisible assailant. Moncoya’s head snapped up and Cal took a second to mutter a curse. He had been determined not to reveal his presence to Moncoya. Not yet. Now Moncoya was aware of his existence, although he still didn’t know who Cal was.